In the reoccurring nightmare of yr leaden stride, you'd skinned yrself in line in yr real life. You passed off to my cousin what you hoped to resign, the doubt, dread, and mistrust you'd been assigned. It's just a waste of pain, to only live inside the limitations of a name. We all seek the privilege of privileged nonexistence, to fit into a mitten made of television, but I cannot speak to you. I fear yr fear, I fear yr fucking gun. I'm yr manslaughter, forced in a satchel. I'm yr enemy, also yr army. I was given meat, and I could feed for a week. But give a n***a a brick and the whole neighborhood can eat. And if you always check to see if yr the man of these streets, you miss the opportunities to see yrself in me. I lose the time to understand a hell I don't know, the failure to escape one of this white world's forms of mind control. And I silently sadly think of the impossible seeming unity of allies who look like me